Jacob always feared the trigger—the one thing that could tilt the balance, that could pull him back into the storm before he had a chance to steady his footing.It came, as these things often did, when he least expected it.
His part-time job—something small but grounding—cut his hours without warning. The company was restructuring, they said. Nothing personal. But to Jacob, it felt personal. The job had been his fragile lifeline, his proof that he was capable, reliable. Losing it rattled something deep inside him.
That same day, the bill for his impulsive spending spree during his last manic episode arrived. He hadn’t forgotten about the credit cards. He’d just buried the knowledge, letting it drift somewhere out of focus. Now, the numbers glared back at him, sharp and unforgiving.
The weight settled on his chest.
Sofia noticed the shift right away. His texts became shorter. His voice on the phone lost its warmth. Emily noticed too, calling more often, her worry thinly veiled.
“You’re pulling back,” Emily said. “Talk to me.”
“It’s fine,” Jacob lied. “I can handle this.”
But inside, the old machinery had started grinding to life again. His thoughts sped up, chasing frantic solutions. Maybe if he started a side hustle, maybe if he borrowed more, maybe if he just pushed harder.
Sleep slipped away from him. First one night, then three. The familiar rush returned—a dangerous, seductive hum beneath his skin.
You don’t need help.
You’ve got this.
You’ve always had this.
The problem wasn’t the pressure. Jacob had lived under pressure before. The problem was the voice—the one that told him he could fix everything if he just ran fast enough.
Sofia saw it in his eyes during dinner.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said gently. “You’re climbing again.”
He bristled. “Don’t overreact.”
“Jacob—”
“I said I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t.
He’d started skipping his meds. Just one at first, then two. He wanted to feel the spark again, the clarity, the edge. He wanted to outrun the crushing fear that he was falling behind, that he was failing everyone.
When Emily found out, she drove to his apartment and wouldn’t leave until he let her in.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she pleaded. “You know how this ends.”
Jacob’s hands shook as he paced the room. “What if I can handle it this time?”
“You never handle it. You survive it. And we’re the ones picking you up from the wreckage.”
Her words hit hard, because they were true.
His breath came in sharp bursts, panic pressing against his ribs. The spiral was pulling him under, fast. He knew where this road led—missed doses, manic highs, dangerous decisions, and then the inevitable crash.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered.
Emily stepped closer. “Then let us help you. Please. Before it’s too late.”
But the thing about spirals—they don’t ask for permission.
And Jacob wasn’t sure he could stop the fall this time.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
No comments:
Post a Comment